


The Visit

by scifinut



Category: Fall Out Boy, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:58:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4656999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifinut/pseuds/scifinut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky's hanging out in a jail cell. Steve is there. Oh, and so is Patrick Stump.</p><p>Rating is for brief imaginary fight scene in chapter 2, otherwise it's pretty tame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tardisee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tardisee/gifts).



> I had a challenge from a friend. It was "I wish you would write a fanfic where Steve is totally desperate to get Bucky back to normal so he asks Patrick Stump to help so Patrick talks to Bucky and sings to him on acoustic guitar in a nasty jail cell."
> 
> Hope I've done it justice.

He woke up slowly. It was something that took some getting used to, being safe enough that he didn't have to be instantly alert, and after so long under the control of others or on the run it always set him on edge. Not a good way to start a day, he figured, wallowing about until your brain decided to pull itself up from sluggish laziness.

"Hey," came a voice from somewhere off to his right. He rolled away from it into a defensive crouch, stopping when the chain attached to the shackle on his wrist pulled tight. A band of carbon steel around his right wrist, he could crush it and pull it off, be free of this place.

"Hey," the voice said, softer this time. How dare it talk to The Asset like this? Kindness was rare, was dangerous. People who were kind to The Asset were the ones who had made him do the worst things. Who was this guy? What was he going to ask him to do?

"Bucky." He froze at the name. Right. Steve. How could he forget? Steve was here, Steve and his flying friend and they were trying to help him put his head on right. He took a deep breath and looked down, his metal hand had stopped, already gripping the handcuff, ready to twist it into wreckage. He let go and sat back, kneeling on the cold ground with his arms at his sides.

"You with me?" Steve asked. He stepped further into the small room but stayed close to the door in case he needed to back away. Bucky nodded without looking up. This was to him the ultimate debasement, all of his weaknesses and insecurities on display. He was restrained with a flimsy bit of chain that they all knew he could break free from if he wanted. Part of the humiliation was that he constantly chose not to, he let himself be brought low by weak metal and poor excuses. Every night he clasped the thing down on his wrist and every morning he let himself loose with the key nearby to give himself freedom to move about the dingy cell he was held in.

Without looking up he could feel the warmth where Steve was kneeling in front of him. Hands on his shoulders. Was it a blessing? A benediction? An old friend looking for whatever comfort he could find? He hardly felt worthy of even the least of these and yet Steve came back as often as he could, always in the morning, and always with this routine. Somehow having Steve around always made Bucky sleep better, more soundly, and wake up by inches rather than in one sudden jerk. And just as he did every time this happened, he leaned forward trusting Steve to catch him.

(Steve always caught him.)

It was the one indulgence he allowed himself. The other man wasn't allowed to catch him. Was only allowed to touch him on rare occasions, always impersonal, always with a clinical detachment. The need for physical comfort was a weakness, but Steve had always been his biggest weakness. He let himself be held for one minute forty seven seconds before pulling away. It had started out at one minute exactly, but each time Steve came back he allowed himself more time, an indulgence for both of them.

Hands returned to his shoulders. He pitied Steve's right hand, coming to rest time and again on unforgiving metal. At least there, close to his body, it retained warmth. He knew that hand, that arm. On cold mornings the fingertips would be half frozen. Depending on atmospheric conditions it could be expected to take up to three minutes of flexing artificial muscle to circulate enough fluid to unlock the joints.

Steve was talking. Of course he was. That's what Steve did. Talk. It was his job to listen, respond when appropriate, make progress. Begin the slow process of pulling himself together. There was a pause. Had he missed a question? What was the expected response? Perfection was expected at all times of The Asset, he drew himself in close to protect himself from whatever punishment was coming. He wasn't The Asset. He couldn't be as perfect as The Asset. Which meant reprogramming, it meant pain.

"Bucky, you're safe here. Nobody's gonna hurt you. Come on back to me, it's okay."

He hated the weakness. He hated the fear that settled deep into his spine and threatened to paralyze him, memories of shocks rippling through his body. Still, he could see the progress he had made. The Asset would not have flinched. He wasn't The Asset. Not any more. But he wasn't quite Bucky yet either. "What did you ask?"

Steve paused. His hesitation was physical, there was enough of a pause in his breathing. "I didn't ask anything. I said I wanted to bring someone in to talk to you."

"Don't need a damned doctor." He'd repeated the words often enough and hoped Steve would actually start to understand at some point.

"It's not a doctor, Bucky. It's just a man. No special education, no fancy degrees, just a really nice guy. You could use some company that's not me or Sam."

"And if I say no?"

Steve squeezed his shoulder gently. "Then I call him and say thanks, but my friend doesn't want company. Maybe another time. It's your choice, I'm not going to force you."

It was nice to know where the limits were. He'd be forced to eat, forced to drink, but not forced to wash and not forced to socialize. It was a matter, it seemed, of forced survival. And he wanted to be better, he really did, he was just so tired all the time from putting in the effort to get better. Constant heightened awareness, adrenaline surges for completely mundane things, visceral flashbacks of pain and cold wore him down and left him in constant fear of losing control, losing himself into the black swirling void of suppressed emotions that he held within him. He preferred the emptiness, the solitude. At least when he was alone he knew he wouldn't hurt anyone else.

"You'll be here? Keep him safe?"

Steve smiled. It was a nice smile. A calm smile. It soothed his nerves a bit. "Course I'll be here. If I try to leave the two of you alone you'll end up telling him any embarrassing story you can remember. Wouldn't put it past you to make some up, too."

This, Bucky thought, was what life should be. He reached out for the key to the handcuffs. It was a benefit that his mechanical hand never shook because the one that was caught in the cuff was starting to tremble. He was getting company. Steve was going to bring someone to visit him. "Wouldn't need to make up anything. You've gone and done enough stupid stuff on your own. I couldn't possibly make up anything more outrageous than some of it."

The cuff fell away with a soft click and he flexed his fingers. Steve's hand trailed down his arm and rubbed at his wrist. There were scabs again this morning. He was tossing and turning in his sleep again. His face twisted into something between a smile and a grimace.

"You okay?" Steve's hand stilled on his wrist.

"Yeah," he said. "Just..." Something twisted sharply in his chest, love and pain all twisted up together and he bowed his head under the weight of his memories. "Reminds me of when we were kids. You'd get into a fight, I'd come rescue you, my ma would be convinced that every damn scrape was gonna kill me, she'd go wash it off and make sure I was okay." He looked up at met Steve's eyes. "You got gentle fingers, just like her."

It was a start. Talking through anything was still hard for him. Sometimes enjoying the good was worse than enduring the bad, everyone from those stories was long gone or had given him up for dead. He had realized he'd lost his entire family, all of his friends, nearly everyone he ever knew. Steve was his only constant. Even then he still had all the memories of trying to kill him which liked to rear their heads at horribly inopportune times.

He stood and went over to where the food was kept. It was hardly a kitchen with only a mini fridge and camp stove. Dry foodstuffs were kept with the dishes near the spigot on the wall. It was the only running water in the cell, and it was waist high. It definitely made bathing an interesting experience.

"I gotta go," Steve said behind him. "Things to do. I'll be back this afternoon."

"With the guy," Bucky said.

"With the guy," Steve agreed. He stepped in close and put a hand on Bucky's shoulder again. There was a gentle pressure, a squeeze. "You'll like him. I promise."

Steve was gone, securing the door behind him. It would do little more than slow him if he actually decided to leave, but it was symbolic. Closed, not locked. He was free to leave at any point, but he chose to stay here and work on himself. He made a token gesture of eating, lost in the emptiness around him, and went to wash the dishes. No sense in letting water go to waste, so he washed himself as well, then crawled over to the bed that he never used. It was a good place to curl up under, give himself some physical protection for the onslaught of emotional pain that always came from the good memories. Metal fingers ghosted over the already healing scabs on his wrist, but it wasn't at all the same.


	2. The Visit

Bucky had vomited and eaten again by the time Steve returned. Stress, it seemed, did horrible things to his digestion process. The door opened and he looked up to see Steve's smiling face. He had chained himself to the wall opposite the bed, the handcuffs now attached to a bolt in the floor. "Hey Steve," he said, trying for nonchalance. For anyone else it would work well. He wasn't sure Steve was going to buy it.

"Hey," Steve said. He noted how Bucky had moved himself away from anywhere another person could comfortably sit and how he'd secured himself. Usually the tug of cuff on his wrist was enough to pull him out of whatever had him trying to attack in the first place. "Patrick's just up the hall. I'm gonna set him up in the next cell over, okay?"

He didn't need to speak. He didn't even need to respond, but he did anyway, nodding for Steve's benefit. For the second time that day Steve walked out, only to reappear in the next cell over with a...Jesus Christ, was that a teenager or a midget? He had a fedora and a guitar. Had Steve finally cracked? He'd never join in a sing along, this whole thing was quickly getting ridiculous.

"Hey," the guy said, waving. "I'm Patrick. Steve's told me a lot about you. Bucky, right?"

He sat up, rigid. "Stevie's the only man alive gets to call me that." Even his other friend who came in called him Barnes, in the oddly clinical manner he had.

"Oh, okay. Sorry about that. What do you want me to call you then?"

What did he want to be called? He had a chance here to make a decision for himself. If it was some sort of test it was an ingenious one. What would the man call himself, the man who had taken so many other names from the world? "James."

"James. Cool." He looked around the cell and into Bucky's cell. "You need that cuff on your wrist?"

He tried to smile, he really did. "For my protection. Helps me focus when I start to lose myself." There was a long pause. "I'm not quite all there in the head yet. Working on it."

"That's what I heard." He kept looking around, between the cells. "Look, do you guys mind, can I just go in there?" He pointed to the cell where Bucky had chained himself to the wall. It would be much easier to have a nice sit down conversation if it wasn't across two rooms with a wall of bars between them.

Steve looked over at Bucky, face pulled in concern. He had his own definite ideas on whether it was a good idea, but the decision wasn't his to make. Whatever happened one way or another he'd handle things if they went south. "It's up to you."

Another decision to make, another subtle way to shift blame if something went wrong. He didn't like decisions. There was something to be said for being told what to do all the time. But he had to learn to do this. It was part of being human again, making choices. He looked up at Steve, almost frightened to do the wrong thing. "You won't let..."

"No, Buck," Steve said, seeing the fear in his friend's eyes. "I won't." Bucky was worried he'd snap and try to attack Patrick, become somehow dangerous to him. He hadn't seen any danger signs yet, and he'd been training himself for a while in what to look for, long before he called in a few favors or asked Bucky if he could bring anyone else in. "Your call."

Did he trust himself? No, that wasn't even the right question. If it was if he trusted himself he wouldn't even let Steve's friend in. Did he trust Steve? Better question, and the answer was absolutely yes. Steve wasn't going to let this guy get hurt, he'd get him to safety or do whatever he needed to. Steve would make sure nothing went wrong. Steve was safe. "Sure," he said. "Come on over."

Steve led the guy out and opened the door to his cell. Christ he looked even shorter now. He settled down on the bed, which was really the only place to sit aside from the floor. "Cool. Better. So, hi."

"Hi," Bucky said. Steve settled down beside him, sitting close enough that their legs rested against each other. Bucky looked over with a raised eyebrow. "Hi," he said, by which of course he meant, 'Why are you sitting so damn close to me?'

"Hi," Steve said. If there was any further meaning behind it, Bucky couldn't figure it out.

"So," Bucky said. "You're not some sort of doctor or anything."

"Nope," Patrick said. "Just a singer. And I play the guitar," he said, lifting it slightly. As if it wasn't already quite clear. "You're a friend of Steve's?"

"Oldest friend," he clarified. "In more ways than one." Remembering how old he was helped him remember the past. It was an anchor that he could hold to. Steve's fingers worked their way into his fist until they were holding each other's hands tightly. "How do you know him?"

Patrick shrugged. "I mean, I guess I don't. No more than almost anyone else in the country. I got a call from my agent, call this number, guy wants a private meeting for a friend of his who's down on his luck." He'd had to sign so many nondisclosure and secrecy agreements, all printed on Stark Industries letterhead, for a moment he honestly thought he'd be meeting Tony Stark himself. Not that this was any less exciting. He'd managed to argue the point that he'd be able to tell the rest of the band if they asked, he was having to cancel some pretty important pre-tour rehearsals, but he doubted they'd actually believe him anyway.

"Down on my luck," Bucky. What a way to put it. His luck couldn't get any further down if he went straight to hell itself. Steve squeezed his fingers, a reminder that there was no need to be rude. "Sorry. So you sing?"

"Yeah, mostly. And play the guitar." He smiled and looked at Bucky, took all of him in. This guy was a hero, one of the last few alive from World War II, even if he had been taken and twisted afterwards. "You, though, man, you saved the country. And from what I hear, you saved him a few times too," he said, motioning to Steve.

Bucky looked over at Steve. He was doing that thing he did when he got embarrassed, smiling and ducking his head, turning it away. "Yeah, well," Bucky said, as kindly as he could. "If he'd just stay outta trouble in the first place he wouldn't need someone to keep saving him." He looked back at Patrick. "This punk, before he was this big guy, he'd get into whatever trouble he could find and he could never get himself out of it."

"Never?" Steve said quietly. That wasn't how he remembered things.

"Damn near," Bucky replied. He leaned in and bumped Steve with his shoulder. "He'd go mouth off to some bully or other, get himself all beat up. I'd have to jump in and get the other guy off him, send him packing, and get this lunk back home and cleaned up. My kid sister'd get all worked up, convince herself we were gonna die if she didn't step in and get us bandaged up. An' Stevie here, well he knew she adored him so he'd always be all serious and play along with her, do exactly what she said to get better. Until the next time there was some idiot in the street spoutin' crap that he thought he had to be the one to fix."

Patrick leaned forward. This definitely wasn't what he'd been taught in history class. "Really." He wanted to hear more. He'd be happy sitting down with these two and just listening them talk about the food they ate, so long as they were together for it. They were cute together. But seriously, the guys were never going to believe any of this.

"Every week," Bucky said. "He's got a complex or something. Had to be the one to get rid of the bullies. Always has."

Steve leaned in and bumped his shoulder into Bucky. "Always knew you'd have my back."

"Getting thick in here," Bucky muttered. Memories were all well and good, but emotions were still hard to handle. Having Steve at his side was a comfort, but he wasn't ready to confront why that was. There was a lot he wasn't ready to confront yet. If he could get himself the memories back without the feelings he'd do that, but it would make him no better than an automaton, responding to input in a proscribed manner. And really, how would that be different than what he'd been forced to become? And there was Steve, ready as always to pull him back, squeezing his fingers. "So I've heard you sing." He paused and looked up with a mischievous smile. "Do you play the guitar too?"

"I might," Patrick said with a grin. "I mean, there are rumors out there that I'm at least decent at it." If he wanted to be in a playful mood, that was something that Patrick could do.

"Okay, but what if I don't believe you?" There had to be a reason Steve had let this guy bring a guitar in, and Bucky figured it probably wasn't so he could use it as an improvised weapon. Not that he particularly wanted to do that, but his mind had been trained for too long to find weapons in everything that he couldn't stop doing it now. What was it that Steve's friend had said? Right, he had to reframe everything. Perfect. He could reframe this. A scene developed in his mind, an exercise in tactics.

First step would be to stun Steve, he could do that breaking out of the handcuff, punch him and throw him to the ground. Get to his feet, stomp on Steve's ribs. Even barefoot he could do a lot of damage.

Next get the guitar and keep the guy from leaving. Smash the guitar, easy enough. The strings, especially the smaller ones, would make particularly nice garrotes. Depending on how hard he pulled and which strings he got to first, it might even come close to severing the head from the body entirely. He'd try to avoid that. No sense in leaving a bloody mess, clean bodies were perfectly fine.

It would get tricky after that. Steve would be up and trying to stop him. Of course he would. That's what Steve did. Stop him from being the worst possible iteration of himself. He replayed their previous fights in his mind. The wires would be nearly useless unless he could get Steve's wrists wrapped up in them and quickly. It would still be a difficult fight, with no weapons and a dead body to fight around in a confined space.

Steve tugged on his hand. "Stop it," he said, too quietly for anyone else to hear. Of course Steve knew what he was doing. Steve always fucking knew what he was doing. Steve took care of him, more like it. That was what he did, made people better. Just by being there.

"Anything in particular you want to hear?"

Bucky shrugged. He hadn't listened to much music in the past several decades, and he seriously doubted this guy knew any of the songs that he'd liked to dance to a lifetime ago. Even if he did listen to more modern music, he had no clue what kind of music this guy even knew how to play. "Surprise me."

Steve nodded at Patrick, he'd already asked for a certain song if Bucky didn't request anything. It was a good song, Steve had liked it since he first heard it blaring in Tony's workshop. Tony would never admit to enjoying Fall Out Boy and would change music whenever anyone else was within hearing distance, but he underestimated Steve's enhanced hearing repeatedly. If it was ever a serious problem Steve would mention it to him but so far all he'd ever done is listen to new music without Tony admitting to listening to it. It worked well for introducing him to new music and honing his eavesdropping skills. It was never easy to listen across half a hallway through mostly soundproofed glass, but certain things just begged to be done.

It started, as most songs do, with a bit on the guitar. Bucky closed his eyes and leaned against Steve. He'd always listened better when he didn't have to watch as well, which had led to some interesting conversations in school. Teachers always thought he had been goofing off, not paying attention, but he had been carefully processing everything they had said. The army had taught him to keep his eyes open but he'd still found ways to ignore the visual input and focus on the words being said.

"Some legends are told, some turn to dust or to gold..."

He didn't think he'd ever been so personally offended by the lyrics of a song before. He sat up away from Steve, spine stiff. He'd already lost seventy years of his life, he was damn near a century old, and there had been so, so many mistakes. How dare this guy come in here and throw it all back in his face like this?

Steve kept his hand around Bucky's wrist, trying to keep him grounded in the moment. He wanted to say something, wanted to find the right words, but he didn't have them. All he could do was hope Bucky would listen to the whole song and hear the message in it. It wasn't a condemnation, it was a celebration. It was the fact that they had survived and were still loved by so many people that they got a permanent exhibition at the Smithsonian, for god's sake. All he could do though was stroke Bucky's wrist gently and hope he heard the meaning.

As far as Bucky was concerned, he didn't want anything to do with this short guy any more. And he was also fairly certain that Steve had something to do with the song selection, especially based on how concerned he seemed to be that Bucky not freak out on him. Maybe it would be best if they both left after this. Like immediately. He didn't feel like being social any more. He didn't feel like being around anyone, not even himself. Not that he could get away from himself, but there were things he could do to distance himself from his mind. Techniques learned in very dark places. Very dark techniques.

The words washed over him and he started focusing on them, their meaning working into his mind. He started relaxing a bit as it worked past his anger. It wasn't about anger or evil, it was about love. Love and goodness. How the hell had he missed that point so thoroughly? He sighed, the anger had left and he now felt drained. It wasn't worth it to stay angry, Steve would find some way to take that all away.

Patrick finished playing and looked over at the two men. He wasn't sure exactly what kind of reaction he had been expecting. What he got was Bucky, James, opening his eyes and cracking a slight smile. There was no way one song was going to cure him or make everything better, but at least for now he looked content, and Patrick was going to take that as a sort of success. Small successes were something he was used to. Baby steps. 

Steve leaned in over Bucky's form. "I'll be right back. Gonna take him out, Sam's waiting in the car outside. Stay with me?"

Bucky reached up and moved Steve out of his way. He unlocked the handcuffs and walked over to the bed where Patrick was standing up. Steve was tense behind him and Patrick wasn't exactly the picture of calm, but he just leaned down and pulled him in to an exceptionally gentle hug. "Thank you," he whispered into his ear.

"No problem, man," Patrick said, hugging him back.

It was the first contact Bucky had initiated in a long time, and the first contact he allowed himself to have that was direct kindness. He didn't want to let go, to release this man who had no reason to trust his own safety and had yet walked straight into the room with him and treated him like any other guy. It didn't make any sense to him, didn't add up at all, but somehow it broke through all of his defenses and left him feeling again. It hurt, the whole feeling thing, but Steve and Sam kept telling him that feeling things was good.

Bucky stepped away and went back to the wall, pressing himself against it. "Nice song."

"Thanks. When you feel better, let me know. I'll get you to a concert if you like. I'm better when I'm not alone." He packed up his guitar and followed Steve to the door. He turned back at the last moment. "Take care of yourself."

"Thanks," Bucky said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://scifinut.tumblr.com).


	3. The Aftermath

Steve was back within a few minutes, Bucky was still standing pressed against the back wall of the cell. He closed the door behind him. "Hey," he said, stepping forward. Bucky's eyes were closed and his breathing was faster than usual. "You okay?"

Bucky stepped forward and threw himself at Steve. Stevie would catch him. Stevie would always catch him. Stevie made things better. Right now he was so confused. What was he anymore? Was he still a monster, forced to be forever linked to his past and the atrocities he'd committed? Or was he a person? An actual human being who had made mistakes but could still be forgiven?

"C'mere," Steve said, leading them to the bed. He sat Bucky down and squatted in front of him. "I'm not going to make you talk to me. But I'm here if you need to."

He shook his head. He couldn't talk, not without being told to. Or even asked, at this point. There were still things that he struggled to do on his own. He was shaking now, he couldn't deal with the whole being treated like a human thing. It wasn't what he was used to, it wasn't what he expected, and it wasn't something he could handle yet.

"Alright. Talk. What's going on?" Steve hated making Bucky do anything. The whole point of leaving him here, in an abandoned prison built over a century ago, was that he had the choice to leave. He could always break out of here without even exerting himself. The point was to give him the choice, to not force him into anything.

"Why'd you bring him?"

Steve considered. He was a good musician, a good man. Everything he'd ever read about the man had given him hope that he was a good choice. "You deserved to see someone else. I don't want to keep you locked here away from the world forever. Patrick's a good guy. I knew he'd see it in you that you were too. I knew he'd treat you like any other person, even if you were chained to the wall."

Bucky shook his head and buried it in his hands. "'M not. Don't deserve a damn thing. What've I done for it?" He was muttering more to himself than anything else. If it had been Sam in here there would be no response. If it had been Sam here, he wouldn't have been led so easily to the bed, he wouldn't have been asked to speak. It wasn't Sam here, though, it was Steve. Steve who wouldn't accept the fact that Bucky was just a bad person and leave it alone. Steve, who heard everything and would always correct him when he was being particularly idiotic. Then again, that was particularly idiotic according to Steve's definition, which left a lot to be desired.

"You've stayed. You've eaten. You've taken care of yourself. You've talked to me. You've let Sam in to make sure you're still healthy. You've started to listen to him, even if you don't talk to him. You're making progress, Buck. You're doing better, I swear it. Even when you can't see it, I can." Mornings were now few and far between where Steve came back and things were broken. He had taken to coming less often, taking more time with his team, because he could afford to. He still made it back as often as he could, but whenever he did come back things were better. "I'm so proud of you."

That broke him. How could anyone be proud of him? After everything he'd done, after everything he'd become, pride was among the least of what he deserved. "But I-"

"Broke free of their control," Steve interrupted. "Let yourself get found. Stayed here when you've had every option to leave. Haven't hurt a single person since coming here. Are working with Sam and me to get better. And you even talked to an absolute stranger today. You smiled. You gave him a hug." He paused to let all of this sink in. "Look, I don't care what you did when you had no control of your actions. What I care about is what decisions you make."

\--

Tony wasn't exactly sure why Steve had asked for a bunch of resources. The jet, nondisclosure agreements, a few cars, but he didn't mind letting him use them. Steve had his own special projects going on, he was more than happy to help out.

He didn't expect to find a hat on his bed. A fedora, to be specific. Black, with a very distinct set of silver squiggles along the rim. A fedora. Autographed by Patrick Stump. He picked it up and smelled it. Definitely worn. A used fedora. Autographed. On his bed. He put it on his head and was surprised to find that it actually fit pretty well. Underneath it was a note.

"Thanks for the hospitality and transportation. Maybe we'll meet up next time."

It was official. Steve got to use whatever he wanted from now on.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://scifinut.tumblr.com).


End file.
